Excerpts for Seventh Victim

The Seventh Victim

ZEBRA BOOKS

Chapter One

Texas Ranger James Beck's captain had spoken those last
glib words seconds after he'd put Beck on paid administrative
leave three weeks ago.

The words rattled in Beck's head as he parked his black
Bronco at a murder scene located twenty miles south of
Austin off Interstate 35's access road. The day's new sun
glowed red over the haze of heat, rising over rolling, dusty
Western lands blanketed with rocks, brush, and scrubby trees.
On the road's shoulder sat a sidelined truck hauling lumber, a
half dozen county sheriff 's cars, and a forensics van. Already
early-morning commuter rubberneckers had snarled morning
traffic.

Oddly, the controlled chaos eased the tightness bunching
the muscles in Beck's lower back. He was officially back in
the saddle and free of the oppressive slower pace of a forced
"vacation."

The seeds of Beck's trouble began six months ago when
Misty Gray, a ten-year-old girl, had vanished. The last person
to see Misty had been her mother's live-in boyfriend, Matt
Dial, who reported to police that the girl had left to play with
friends and then vanished.

After three days and no sign of the child, local authorities
had summoned the Texas Rangers and Beck had been assigned
to the case. The Rangers, often relegated to tales of
the old West, were in fact a modern, elite part of the Texas
Department of Public Safety, known as DPS.

Twenty minutes into Beck's interview with Dial, he knew
the construction worker was lying. But the more questions
Beck fired, the faster Dial shot back denials.

Finding Misty became Beck's personal mission, and he
stayed on Dial long after media stories shifted from rescue to
recovery. When Dial, who turned out to be the black sheep of
a well-connected family, complained about Beck's dogged
trailing, Beck's boss ordered the Ranger to stand down until
the political winds eased. Beck disobeyed, using personal
time to trail Dial. Two weeks went by before the out-of-work
construction worker made a midnight run to a deserted farm.
Beck, trailing close, watched Dial unlock an old shed and
drag out a large plastic bag that could easily hold a child's
body. Weapon drawn, Beck called out to Dial, who raised a
.45 and fired. Dial's shot trailed high, but Beck's shots struck
Dial in the chest, dropping him instantly. Misty's decomposing
body was in the bag.

Forensic investigators found childlike messages scratched
on the shed walls, scattered food wrappers and empty water
jugs. They theorized the girl had lasted three weeks in the
shed before she'd died of dehydration.

When Dial family attorneys attacked the child's character
during the ensuing investigation, Beck's temper had blown.
He'd spoken words a politically aware man would have
avoided and in the end, Beck's commander had saddled him
with paid leave.

"Enjoy the next three weeks. Lay low. Stop and smell the
roses."

Shit.

Beck's downtime had been spent at his grandfather's
garage getting his hands dirty under the hood of a '67 Mustang.
Never once had Beck been plagued by his own actions
or his razor-sharp candor to the attorneys. When asked
during mandatory counseling sessions if he had any misgivings
about the shooting, he'd honestly said he had none. His
regrets were for the little girl who'd suffered alone for three
weeks. The little girl he didn't save.

Beck rubbed a calloused hand over tense neck muscles as
police lights bounced off the freshly waxed hood of his car
and yellow crime scene tape brushed brittle, brown grass
skirting the access road. He grabbed his white Stetson, standard
gear for a Texas Ranger, and got out of the car.

His exile had officially ended.

Gravel crunched under his polished cowboy boots and
bone-dry dirt dusted the hem of his khakis as he moved
down the side of the access road past the truck and the line
of cop cars.

At thirty-five he moved with the quick stride of a younger
man. When teased about his fast pace he joked too many hits
playing high school quarterback had left him edgy and ready
to dodge.

Beck nodded to the local deputies, paused to talk to some,
shook hands with others. All offered best wishes and hearty
welcomes.

One hundred feet off the road he spotted fellow Texas
Ranger Rick Santos. Tall, and lean as gristle, Santos pulled
off his own Stetson and wiped a red bandanna over his
damp brow. As the thirtysomething Santos glanced toward
the morning sky, Beck could almost hear him curse the temperature,
which was expected to kick up over one hundred
degrees. Texans often said the state had two seasons: winter
and summer.

The sun had etched lines around Santos's eyes, tanned his
skin golden, and left blue-black highlights in already dark
hair. Santos's uniform was similar to Beck's, though he favored
string ties over Beck's traditional.

Beck glanced toward the forensics van, which blocked the
view of the body. The 5 AM call from Beck's captain in Austin
hadn't supplied Beck with many case details: female, young,
and found midway between the seventy-mile stretch between
Austin and San Antonio. This crime scene fell smack in the
heart of the Texas Rangers' largest division, Company F,
which spanned counties south of San Antonio to several
north of Austin.

As Beck approached, the San Antonio-based Santos extended
his hand. "Looks like we both were invited to the
party."

Santos clasped his hand, squeezed hard. "I hear the captain's
call pulled you out from under a car engine early this
morning. Still working on the piece of crap you call a car?"
Too restless to sleep, too early for the first-day-back arrival,
he'd gone to his grandfather's garage at 3 AM and tinkered
with the Mustang. "Keeps me out of trouble."

A muscle twitched once, twice in the side of Santos's jaw.

"No one liked seeing you off the streets."

Anger, he thought, conquered, clawed beneath the surface
even as he reminded himself that dwelling wouldn't help him
catch the next monster. "Penance is good for the soul."

Santos looked as if he wanted to say more, but he let it
pass. "You know Deputy Eli Stiles, right?"

"Sure. We worked a couple of car theft cases."

"Good. I'll let him fill you in on the details."

They found Eli standing just outside the crime scene tape
watching his technicians work. He was a tall man with a
neatly shaved head and a wide salt-and-pepper mustache.

Though he'd been well muscled in his youth, thirty years in
a patrol car had thickened his belly.

Deputy Stiles gripped Beck's hand in an iron hold. "Good
to see you back in action, boy."

His intent was to avoid all inquiries, even the well-meaning
ones, about the last three weeks. Time to move forward. "I
know this isn't a social call."

Deputy Stiles tugged his hat forward a fraction. "No, sir,
it is not. I have a Jane Doe I want you to see."

Beck nodded. "What's special about this one?"

"This whole setup is off, which is why I called in the
Rangers."

Beck rested his hands on his hips. "Why off?"

The deputy shook his head. "You tell me."

"Have a look at her, Beck," Santos said. "You'll see."

The trio ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and
came up behind the forensic technician, who for a moment
blocked the view of the body. When the tech shifted her
stance Beck got his first real look at the victim.

The woman lay on her back, her hands folded over her
chest. Blond hair splayed out onto the ground mirroring a
fully fanned skirt. She looked like some grim angel.

"Minute I saw her, I thought about the dead woman they
found in San Antonio three weeks ago," Deputy Stiles said.

Benched at the time, Beck's information on the San Antonio
murder had come from the newspaper. There'd been
three articles about the San Antonio victim, and to his recollection,
her picture had not been released. "Why do you
say that?"

"Not a whole lot left of her after weeks, maybe months outside.
What the sun and rain didn't get, the animals dragged
off. No identification found on her, but local law determined
that she'd been wearing a white dress."

"A white dress," Santos said. "Common enough, isn't it?"

Deep worry lines were etched into Stiles's forehead and
at his temples. "On one victim it might be. On two, well, call
me jaded, but I don't think so," he said.

Seeing this victim struck a chord deep in Beck's memory
that went farther back than a month. But the harder he tried
to wrangle the memory the faster it pranced out of reach.

The three men stared at the body, the air around them
pulsing.

Finally, Santos broke the silence. "When Stiles mentioned
the San Antonio murder, I pulled up my computer files on the
case." He shifted his stance. "According to the report the
local sheriff used approximate characteristics from the medical
examiner and matched their victim to a missing persons
report. Long story short, her name was Lou Ellen Fisk, age
twenty-two. She lived just north of San Antonio."

Deputy Stiles hooked his thumbs in his belt. "Local boys
figured the boyfriend killed her. Fisk and her man had had
their share of fights."

Santos nodded. "He didn't much like the idea that she was
graduating from college and moving to Chicago. They haven't
pinned the murder on him, but the cops think it's a matter of
time."

"He got an alibi?" Beck said.

"Pack of his buddies swore he was drinking with them
most of the night."

Beck pulled rubber gloves from his back pocket and moved
toward the technician working the site. The cast of his shadow
caught the technician's attention. She rose and turned, and
he recognized her immediately. "Melinda Ashburn."

She'd worked the murder of Misty Gray. He'd watched her
open the bag and tenderly examine and record what remained
of the little girl's body. In her late twenties, Melinda wore
dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat that protected a
stock of red hair and pale, freckled skin. "Good to see you
back, Sergeant Beck."

"Good to be back. What did you find, ma'am?"

"Still taking pictures and sketching. As you can see she's
got a good bit of bruising around her neck. My guess is strangulation."

"Yes, ma'am, I do see that." The rising heat of the day beat
down on Beck. The body had yet to take on the coiling smells
of decay, but that would soon change. Nighttime temperatures
had bumped close to eighty and faint dark patches, the
first signs of decomposition, had started to appear on her
cheeks. Soon the body would bloat and then split. By sunset
she'd barely be recognizable. If left out here a couple of days,
she'd quickly go the way of Lou Ellen Fisk.

He crouched and studied the details: neatly trimmed nails,
delicate hands that didn't look like they'd seen hard labor and
smooth skin unmarked by the hard Texas sun. "She can't be
much more than twenty."

"That's my guess," Melinda said.

"Any identification?"

"None that I've found. But we'll roll her prints as soon as
she gets to the medical examiner's office."

Prints were no guarantee of identification. If she wasn't in
the Automated Fingerprints System known as AFIS, they'd
start digging through missing persons reports. "Any signs
of bruising or wounds on her face or arms?"

A warm wind skidded across the grass, teasing the hem of
the victim's white skirt. Her almost peaceful features mocked
what had to have been terrifying last minutes.

Beck flexed his gloved fingers as he stared at the woman.

"Is she clenching something in her right hand?"

"I think so," Melinda said. "I'll be getting to it soon
enough."

"I don't want to rush your process, but when you open that
hand let me know what you find." Again a vague memory
pestered.

Beck rose, thanked Melinda, and turned to Santos. A
muscle in the back of Beck's neck tensed as it did when he
grabbed for a memory out of his reach. "Why does this case
feel familiar?"

"Bugging the hell out of me, too," Santos said.

Beck rested hands on hips as he mentally shuffled through
old case files. Strangulation. White dresses. Blond females.
And then the memory hit. "Remember the Seattle murders
six or seven years ago?"

Santos rubbed his chin. "I do. I was still with DPS then.
The press called him the ... Seattle Strangler."

As mental gates opened, the memories flooded. "Six
women were strangled and all were wearing white. Each had
a penny in her hand." The penny detail had never been released
to the public but Beck had heard about it through
police channels.

Santos nodded. "Good memory."

"He caused a panic in Seattle. I read about it in some
report, but when the case went cold, it was pushed to the
back burner."

"The guy ever caught?"

"From what I remember, no. His last victim survived. The
killer went dark, and I heard all kinds of theories. He was
jailed. Died. Moved on. Lost his nerve."

Santos glanced toward the victim splayed in the dirt. "San
Antonio victim's bones were bleached white and scattered by
the animals. We don't know how she died. And a penny
didn't turn up during the search."

"No one was looking for it."

"True. And if the killer left a penny, we had a hell of a
storm last month that likely washed it away."

As Santos turned to respond to a question from a DPS officer,
Beck shoved out a breath and turned back toward the
body. "Melinda, would you do me a favor and have a look
inside that gal's hand? Mighty important."

She nodded and squatted by the clenched hand. Carefully,
she peeled back fingers stiffening with rigor mortis. As she
raised her camera to photograph her discovery, she said,

"There's a penny."

Beck leaned closer. "You sure about that?"

"Very." She snapped dozens more pictures.

Beck called Santos over and pointed to the victim's hand.

Santos took one look at the penny and swore. "This nut
might have resurfaced in Texas?"

"Or a copycat." Beck rubbed the back of his neck with his
hand. He'd need all the information San Antonio had on the
first victim and an identity on this victim quickly.

"These cases could stir up a hornet's nest," Santos said.

"I believe you are right."

Melinda bagged the penny in a small zip-top evidence bag.
"Beck, I'll pass it on to the medical examiner in Austin."

"Thanks, Melinda. Appreciate that." Beck turned to Santos.
"I've got to get situated in the office, and then I'll swing by
the medical examiner's office. I want to be there for the
autopsy." He'd not seen his desk in three weeks, but he welcomed
the waiting chaos.

"Sounds good, Sergeant."

Beck turned back toward the road and caught sight of the
big rig. The massive black cab hauled a trailer loaded with
lumber. "You said a trucker called in this murder?"

"Yeah."

"He still in his rig?"

"Yep, and getting more pissed by the minute. He's squawking
about schedules."

"Let me talk to him." Beck moved toward the truck cab and
knocked on the driver's-side door window. No one was in the
cab, but these big rigs came with a rear sleep compartment.
Beck's grandfather, Henry Beck, had been a long-haul trucker
in his younger days before opening his garage and often said
that during his trucking days, he'd have traded a year's worth
of steak and sex for a solid twelve hours of sleep.

Beck pounded his fist on the side of the cab. Finally, a
gruff, "Just a damn minute."

Beck stepped back, squinting north over the median into
the oncoming interstate traffic, now moving slower and
slower as motorists tried to glimpse the crime scene. Soon
there'd be a hell of a backup on I-35.

After some shuffling, cussing, and more shuffling the cab
door opened and a tall bear of a man appeared. He wore jeans,
a Dallas Cowboys black T-shirt, and a belt buckle shaped like
Texas. He grabbed his hat from the cab, smoothing back thick
gray hair before settling the cap on his head. "You here to
tell me I can go?"

"In just a minute or two. Right now I'd like a rundown."

The trucker pulled a can of dip from his back pocket and
tucked a pinch of tobacco in his cheek. "I already told the
other cops."

Beck shoved aside irritation. "And I do appreciate that. I
do. But mind running it by me one more time, Mister ... ?"

"Raynor. Billie Raynor."

He pulled a small notebook and pen from his back pocket.
"You're from?"